


Not as Grimm as it Seems

by WhisperingDarkness



Category: Grimm (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And also owns a bakery/coffee shop, Angst, But Monroe and Nick totally think he is, Crossover, Dimension Travel, Gen, Harry Potter Has a Saving People Thing, Harry is not a Grimm, Loyalty, Secrets, Snapshots, and a lot of friendship, but also fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 16,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingDarkness/pseuds/WhisperingDarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment Harry started, surprised at the first sign of any sort of non-muggle presence in this world...</p><p>Collection of related drabbles/snapshots about Harry in the world of Grimm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeing

For a moment Harry started, surprised at the first sign of any sort of non-muggle presence in this world. He swore his heart skipped a beat, even as he automatically reached for his wand, grasping the familiar wood tightly under his jacket as he stared at the wolf-man.

The wolf-man turned, as if he could sense the wizard’s gaze, and his earlier visage melted away into a human one a long second after their eyes met. The now-man-again blinked, staring at Harry with a small, confused frown on his face. A second later the confusion melted away in realisation and the man took a step back.

But Harry wasn’t going to let his only hint of magic get away. Not now that he found something just as magical and out of place as he was in this world. No, he was bloody well going to find out just who or what that wolf-man was. Mind made up, his shoulders straightened and his face blazed with a merciless determination that hid the desperate loneliness and fear of these last few months. 

With his sharp eyes not leaving the man’s he moved forward.

He had not expected the man to actually _run_.

(Word Count: 200)


	2. Meeting

Harry only barely managed to keep up with the running wolf-man. The bloke was fast – and seemed to be familiar with this forest he had entered. 

But Harry wasn’t unused to running and could be fast when it mattered – whether he was running from Dudley, from the Snatchers or Death Eathers during their Horcrux hunt, or running _towards_ something or someone equally important. Right now, as always, it was his desperation and determination that fuelled him – that pushed him on and on despite the stitch in his side and his shortness of breath. 

Even so, the wolf-man was faster. Not to mention stronger – when his way was blocked, the guy ripped off even the thickest and heaviest tree-branches in his way with an ease that was somewhat scary.

So Harry took a chance, held his wand out in the open and aimed a wordless ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ at a large branch in front of the running man.

He was already hiding his wand again when the man hit the ground. Harry was slightly embarrassed at having to cheat, especially since the guy hadn’t actually _done_ anything to him – but, as he quickly marched over to the lying man, the wizard did manage to portray an air of power and confidence.

At least, he hoped he did. Otherwise he’d be looking like a skinny, embarrassed, harmless kid and that was not quite the image he was going for nowadays. Or ever. 

So he cleared his throat, looked down at the man who was quickly scrambling to his feet and put on his most forbidding voice. “What, may I ask, are you?” 

Harry was sure he managed to sound hard, unyielding and filled with an impressive command because the man, now once again upright, had his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. 

“Ok there, let’s just take it easy, alright. I am not your typical Blutbad.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at the word; ‘Blutbad – bloodbath’ that did _not_ sound good.

“I’m a good Blutbad!” the man hastened to say, even as he took another step back, “a vegetarian even. And I work with a Grimm – Nick, he knows me, he can vouch for me.”

The wizard relaxed. None of the words spilling from the man’s mouth meant anything to him – except vegetarian which he took as a good thing – but the man’s manner and hasty explanations were a good enough indication that he didn’t mean any harm.

“A Blutbad, huh.”

“Vegetarian. A _vegetarian_ Blutbad, I don’t do that sort of stuff anymore – fully clean nowadays, working on the side of the angels, or at least the Grimm. And the police.”

Harry nodded in understanding and the man sighed in relief and lowered his hands. “So… we're good… Right?” he asked.

“Of course.” 

The man’s face shifted back into his wolf-form and Harry could see him scenting the air before it went back to its former unassuming appearance. “You’re sure. I mean, we _are_ good –?”

Harry cocked his head and took a few steps closer to the man who tensed up again, his face going back to that of a wolf-man with a dangerous growl - preparing for a fight, no doubt. 

The wizard halted in his steps, hand hovering above where his wand-holster was hidden underneath his jacket. “I just have one more question, if you don’t mind?”

He got a slow, wary nod in reply.

“Just what, exactly, _is_ a Blutbad?”

The silence that fell between them was filled with a heavy tension as both men tried to find something in each others eyes – the truth, the start of an attack, a hint of deception.

It was the wolf-man who broke their stalemate by exhaling loudly, letting go of his wolf-like aspects and allowing the tension to drain from his body. “Oh man, you’re a new one too?”

Harry frowned, wondering what this man was talking about; “A new what?”

“A Grimm, man.” At the look of non-understanding on his face, the man rolled his eyes. “Jeez man, you scared the crap outta me.”

“I scared you?” Harry repeated, somewhat amused by the fact that this man – whom he had seen rip off more than just one heavy tree-branch with his bare hands and who had growled at him with the face of a wolf would be scared of _him_. Not him, Harry Potter – famous, powerful wizard, but him – short skinny stranger. His ‘forbidding voice’ must have been even better than he thought it was. A smile spread over his face at that thought as he mentally rubbed this in the face of his friends 'Hah – now who's laughing at my powerful wizard persona, huh?'

He ignored the homesick twinge he felt in his chest when, in his mind’s eye, he saw them rolling their eyes and laughing at him. 

(Word Count: 800)


	3. Knowing

After their little tussle in the woods, Monroe had explained to Harry about himself, about Wesen in general, about some in particular - and about the Grimm.

And Harry had listened, silently comparing the magic of this world to his own. Monroe would be the werewolf of this world – with the strength, sense of smell and animal instincts of a wolf but the mind of a man. From what Harry could tell, the Blutbaden didn't really 'lose themselves' to the wolf at any given time but it was a struggle – the instincts were always there, underneath the surface.

The fact that this man both fought _and_ accepted them; used _and_ denied them depending on which instincts they were – that was something that Harry could never fully understand.

But he could respect it.

So he nodded in all the right places, asked a few questions of his own, making sure that he _understood_ these Wesen and the rules of this new world he had ended up in - 'so you keep yourselves a secret from the 'normal people', but you _can_ show yourself to them if you want to?' - as he amicably let the man lead them back to civilization.

(Word Count: 200)


	4. Conversation

"A _bakery_?"

Harry just raised an eyebrow and nodded.

"Dude. How can you own a bakery of all things?"

"I bought it." the wizard answered, ignoring the man's incredulous tone.

"Yeah, I got that. But man… it just seems like a very un-Grimm like thing to do." Monroe shook his head in amazement as he looked around the cosy, closed shop. "Seriously, you just bake stuff?"

"Cookies, cake, donuts… I have some delicious cherry pie if you're interested?"

"Yeah... sure."

Harry finished setting up the last tables with paper napkins and sugar bowls and turned to the kitchen to get that pie. It was the least he owed the guy for their little unscheduled morning run. Especially since it had been his doing.

They ate silently, a reluctant camaraderie cautiously settling itself between them as both of them enjoyed their tea or coffee and Harry's freshly baked pie.

"Well, thank you for your explanations."

"No problem, man. Thank you for not killing me."

They rose, shook hands, and Harry led the wolf-man to the door.

Before the door closed between them, Harry knew that there was one thing left to be said about all this: "I'm not a Grimm, though."

(Word Count: 200)


	5. Deny

"Did the wolf put you up to this?" Harry asked, by now quite used to Monroe dropping by just before opening time for some freshly baked goods and freely offered friendly-neighbourhood-wolf counselling.

The man for whom he had opened the door just after closing blinked in surprise. "Ah, yeah. My name is Nick Burkhardt."

"The Grimm." Harry clarified, recognizing the name from the countless times Monroe had tried to convince him to go and see the man and talk about 'Grimm-stuff'.

He had yet to convince his Blutbad acquaintance that he was not, in fact, a Grimm himself.

"Yes. The Grimm." The police detective paused, his friendly smile disappearing behind something cautious but hopeful that twisted his face into a rather adorable frown. " _A_ Grimm, because apparently you are one too."

The wizard sighed and shook his head; "I'm sorry, detective, but I'm not."

The police detective seemed to be sizing him up and Harry nearly winced because he _knew_ what the man would see – someone young, vulnerable and alone who was hiding from the world. Because good police officers, even in the U.S. a world away, always seemed to recognize these parts in Harry; the orphan, the runaway, the victim of bullying, neglect and abuse.

Somehow his wild raven-hair, his glasses and his small frame obscured the part of him that was strong, the part that _did_ know love and just how precious it was, the part of him that knew, deeply – to the very core of his being that there was so much in the world, either world, worth fighting for. He wondered why they couldn't see _that_ part of him – the one that Hermione so aptly named his "saviour-complex", the part of him that would always, _always_ stand up against any who wanted to do harm to those he cared for, to innocents or random passers by - and do the right thing.

No matter the cost.

And this time, the last time – it had cost him dearly.

Hands clenched, Harry turned away, fleeing his thoughts more than he was fleeing the policeman's intruding stare.

"Look…" the man started, voice carefully soft – of course it would be – "I know that this, that all of this is not something anyone would want. It's kind of crazy, a bit out there, but it is happening. It's real, and denying that won't help. It won't make this go away."

"Detective-"

"Nick. Call me Nick."

And Harry didn't bother to argue, because the detective's voice was still infinitely gentle - as if he were talking to a frightened child. So he nodded and humoured the man because he knew that this man was both a Grimm and a policeman and that denying the guy this familiarity would only make him push harder – Harry recognized that stubbornness beneath the warm smile.

He had it too - that same unwavering determination, when it came down to stuff that _mattered_.

So he would give this man an inch. "Nick."

An inch, but no further.

(Word Count: 500)


	6. Warm

"Harry, meet Rosalee."

"Nice to meet you." The British wizard said, politely shaking hands with the woman.

The woman replied in kind; "Nice to meet you too."

"Would you like some tea, coffee, hot chocolate?" Harry offered, leading his after-closing guests to a table. "I find that I much prefer the warming taste of hot chocolate these wintry evenings" he mused aloud.

Monroe, used to Harry's habit of plying every visitor with food and drinks before being willing to engage in any real conversation, followed him agreeably. "Yeah, sure – hot chocolate would be a nice change. Hey, do you still have any Pumpkin Pie left?" the wolf turned to the woman at his side; "they are surprisingly good."

Rosalee, to her credit, seemed perfectly willing to go along with it, even as something in her stance told Harry that he was not quite what she'd expected.

It was heartening, the way she put her trust in Monroe.

So, instead of getting left-over goods from the kitchen, he silently Apparated to his apartment above the store and got the last two pieces of Pumpkin Pie from his own refrigerator.

Because some things were more important than that tantalizing taste of home.

(Word Count: 200)


	7. Truth

The man had walked into his bakery just before closing and had stayed there, patiently waiting. Harry knew who he was, had seen him in the company of the Detective. He was their Captain.

He was more than _just_ that.

Harry flipped the sign on the door to 'Closed' and busied himself with cleaning up – he could be patient as well, nowadays.

"What are you?" The police captain finally asked, voice calm – undaunted. There was no outward sign that he was anything more than human, but the wizard could sense the power hidden underneath the man's skin.

So he looked up, meeting those piercing eyes for a long silent moment.

"I am… a long way from home." Harry finally answered – but his eyes conveyed the deeper truth: - I am nothing you have seen before, I am what I am, me alone.

A truth laid bare - for those who could read it.

Captain Renard nodded, stood and walked away.

The Master of Death was left wondering what it was _he_ had found in the other man's eyes. He thought it might have been a form of protective concern.

But he wasn't sure – it had been hidden far too deeply.

(Word Count: 200)


	8. Promise

"I'm sorry man, I didn't know where else to go." Monroe started as he hastily made his way inside the bakery. Harry yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and locked the door behind them even as his sort-of-friend rambled on. "They know about Nick and about the shop, so I figured my house wouldn't be the best choice either and I _had_ to take her somewhere safe."

Harry looked between the agitated man – face switching between wolf and human – and Rosalee, who seemed rather shook up. "It's fine." He said simply, calmly.

For a moment he regarded the shop's windows and the cold, dark night behind them.

And shook his head with a resigned sigh. "Come on, then."

The bakery was one thing, but it was an uncomfortable, revealing, yet oddly warm feeling to bring them to his apartment, his private space – somewhat like sunbathing naked on a low, sunny roof.

Thankfully neither of his midnight guests remarked upon the lack of photographs and knickknacks. They didn't mention that the only thing that made his apartment look like a home were the candles and the collection of pillows and plaids the colour of autumn leaves.

Besides those, his rooms were still bare – no pictures on the walls, no books on the shelves – even a full year after his arrival here.

Rosalee was too polite to mention any of this and Monroe… Monroe still had far too much wolf in his face to notice such trivialities - his eyes were still darting around, looking for some hidden threat.

"Monroe." The wizard said firmly, not just drawing, but _demanding_ the man's attention.

When he could see that the wolf-man was fully focussed on him he gave a soft, reassuring smile – one that felt almost foreign because he hadn't used it since coming to this world, since parting from his family of friends. Still, despite the disuse, his smile was true. As were the words that accompanied it.

"No harm will come to you in my home. Whoever, whatever it is that hunts you – it cannot find you here."

The silence between them was filled with questions that would not be asked, not now, and answers that might never be spoken out loud.

But it was also filled with truth. And trust.

And more warding magic than this world had ever seen.

Because Harry was nothing if not protective of his home.

(Word Count: 400)


	9. Choice

"I'm really sorry about this, Harry." Detective Nick Burkhardt told him, voice apologetic and eyes troubled.

"It's fine. Monroe and Rosalee are always welcome here."

The Grimm ran a hand through his hair; "It's not fine. We are putting you in danger." He walked back and forth in Harry's small living room with a tense, barely restrained force - like a caged tiger. "Maybe Hank…"

"No."

The man blinked an turned to the wizard; "It's not that I don't appreciate it. But Hank is a cop – he doesn't know about Wesen and any of this, but maybe if I told him-"

"Detective." Harry's voice was hard. He was done humouring the man. It wasn't that he didn't respect Nick - from all that he had seen and heard of the man, he liked him. He was a good man, a good police officer and a good Grimm – one who didn't kill indiscriminately, one who understood the concept of live and let live, one who didn't judge and didn't hurt people needlessly. But he was also crossing a line that Harry was rather sensitive about. "Monroe and Rosalee can stay here. With me."

The detective shook his head; "I cannot ask you-"

But Harry interrupted him again; "This isn't your decision. It's mine. And what you _cannot do_ is tell me what choice to make."

Nick didn't immediately protest again. No, the man studied him – took in his stance, his eyes, his calm but firm voice. And Harry could tell that this man saw him. Listened to his words seriously.

And despite, or maybe because of, Harry's immense dislike of people trying to protect him for his own good, _that_ made his respect for the guy raise just a notch higher. Because most of them had never even _tried_ to see him, hadn't wanted to listen to the words of a teenage boy – even though he was a rather central part of the situation.

"I thought you didn't want to get involved with any of this. I thought you didn't want to be a Grimm." Nick said – but there was no accusation there, just a careful statement, almost a test.

"I am who I am, whether that is a Grimm or not has nothing to do with this." Harry said firmly. "If my friends are in danger, I _will_ help them."

But Nick was more than a Grimm, he was a police detective and he had to do his best to protect Harry, if he could; "This could be dangerous - you could get hurt."

And what Harry _wanted_ to say was that he wasn't a child, that he was, perhaps, far more aware than the older detective of the costs, of the pain that came from getting involved, from starting to care. He could have told the man that he had been in a _war_ , that he had seen and done things that would give even a Grimm nightmares – he could have said any of this, but he doubted it would make this situation any better.

"I know." Was all that came from his mouth – softly spoken, but without the slightest hint of doubt. Because Harry _did_ know, perhaps better than anyone. But he had already promised Monroe safety in his home. And if they got hurt without his help – because of him… No, no matter what Nick said, this way would be far less painful than that.

Detective Burkhardt looked at him a moment longer - and there was still guilt and a need to protect all of them warring with understanding on his face. So the wizard almost sighed in relief when, finally, the man nodded.

The detective left – to pick up Monroe and Rosalee from his trailer, where he had left them to research the current threat. And Harry was left to ponder the fearful guilt in the man's eyes.

He knew those feelings, knew them well. But he also knew that everyone made their own choices. His friends had chosen to stand by his side – Hermione, Ron, the members of their DA study group. Even Sirius had made his own choice, in coming to save him.

It had taken him a long, long time to come to terms with it and quite a few arguments with Ron and Hermione. As his friends had so vehemently pointed out – this was their life, their world and their war too. It didn't matter that Voldemort hunted them because of Harry.

Because, even _without him_ they still would have fought.

As Ron had so aptly put it; "Blimy Harry, don't you get it! This isn't about _you_ , it's about all of us. Do you really think that if we weren't your friends, that we wouldn't have been a part of this war? That Hermione as muggle-born wouldn't have been a bloody target? That we wouldn't stand up and fight either way? We _want_ to fight. Hell, mate, we _need_ to do this. You're not the only one with a right to fight for the people you care about, you know. We have just as much to fight for as you do."

And with Ron standing before him, a true Gryffindor in every sense of the world, Harry hadn't been able to deny it. Because hadn't they earned the right to make that choice? To stand up for what they believed in like Harry did? Could he really ask them to step aside, to _not_ help him because he was afraid that they would get hurt?

How could he ask that - when he would _never_ hesitate to rush forward to save them, no matter the danger, every single time.

And it didn't make it hurt any less, didn't make the guilt fully go away – to know that this was their choice, their own choice to make. The pain, the fear, the loss, the guilt and the what-if's were all still there.

Nothing would ever change that.

He wondered if, these days, Ron held that same painful guilt in his eyes.

(Word Count: 1000)


	10. Blood

There was blood on his shirt.

Blood on his arms and face too, and in his hair and mouth – but _that_ was his own blood and didn't bother him even nearly as much as the blood on his previously blue shirt.

Even if it hadn't been Harry who had killed the Mauvais Dentes in the end. Harry had still made his choice – had refused to take the risk that the beast-man would come back and hurt those he considered his friends.

Not with Nick on the floor, unconscious. With Rosalee running from the bakery to get some help at Monroe's urging.

With Monroe hurt and scared and desperately trying to get the detective to wake up.

His promise had echoed loudly in his ears and he couldn't break it. Not for his life.

So he had stood before the Mauvais Dentes and didn't even _try_ to expel the Wesen from his shop with magic. No, he wouldn't risk this man coming after his friends later, without Harry there to help them, and finish what it started.

But with Monroe's fearful eyes darting between him and the beast, with Nick softly groaning as he regained consciousness Harry couldn't, wouldn't call on his magic in any obvious way.

Not unless he had no other choice.

Because some things scared him far more than this creature in front of him. And revealing to any of them what sort of freak he really was - that was one of them. No, he didn't want to go there. Not with his life here still so painfully fragile.

He didn't think he could deal with the change it would bring between them.

So he trusted his wards, even if the wards on his bakery were not nearly as tightly woven as those on his apartment - _couldn't be_ , because it wouldn't do for a customer (even if they were the sort of hate-filled, blood-stained person stopped by his wards) to be unable to enter. Still, he trusted that he, as the ward-maker would not meet his death to the one who entered his territory to do harm to him and his own – those under his protection.

And he trusted _himself_ , because Harry knew more than just magic – had fought in a war since he was eleven, even if he hadn't fully realised he was fighting back then. And he had known violence and pain even before that, at the hands of Dudley and his gang.

He did not fear either pain or death. Nor did he long for them.

And that made him a difficult opponent to fight.

But his friends were hurt and he had _made a promise_ and he would bloody well keep it.

And that made him _more_ than just a difficult opponent. No, that made him fierce, determined and willing to break every unspoken rule he imposed on himself, because if it came down to it _he would not lose_.

In the end, it hadn't quite gotten that far and his rules remained unbroken.

Blood on his face and legs, bruises on his arms and hips. Scratches and bite-marks but Harry had left his own marks on the one who dared hurt those he cared for; a broken leg, a large bruise on the face, the deep slashes of a bread-knife. But none of that really mattered in the end.

Because it was the bullet-wound that had killed the Mauvais Dentes.

The Grimm.

And Harry was ridiculously grateful to the detective for that - that in _this_ world he was not yet a killer.

Even if there _was_ blood on his shirt.

(Word Count: 600)


	11. Concern

"Shit man, I'm so sorry" the wolf-man said and Harry could feel the light tremors going through his friend's body.

The wizard somewhat awkwardly patted his friend on the back. He always hated making people worried. And he never knew what to say to reassure them. "I'm fine, Monroe. It was my choice to help you – and things worked out, didn't they?"

The man didn't answer but Harry felt the huff of breath on his neck as the wolf breathed in his scent.

He allowed the Blutbad this moment, this embrace.

Even though the honest concern for his wellbeing made him feel thoroughly embarrassed and uncomfortable.

And perhaps, just a little bit, _touched_.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly and the wolf loosened his hold on him. "Tea, then?"

For a moment it looked as if Monroe would protest, say something more. But thankfully he didn't. "Yeah, that's fine."

Harry pretended not to notice that, before letting go, the man's arms tightened around him for a just a few heartbeats.

In turn, Monroe was kind enough not to comment on the fact that Harry led him up the stairs - to his _home_ \- instead of a table in the bakery.

(Word Count: 200)


	12. Secrets

This time the police captain did not even try for subtle. He had walked right up to the door of Harry's closed bakery and stared at the wizard inside – demanding entrance.

And Harry had figured that it was best to get this – whatever this was – over with. Because he could tell that that man had more than just confidence. He had power.

So he let Captain Renard into his bakery and, not one to break the rules of politeness even despite his slight annoyance, gracefully led the man to a comfortable chair with its back to the wall – because this man had come to see him on _his_ home-ground and deserved a cordial advantage for that despite the suddenness of his visit.

Neither man spoke until Harry had finished getting them both drinks. He had remembered that the man had ordered a Macchiato on his first visit and – though he never much cared for any variety of coffee – out of a polite deference to put them on equal standing, he had made the same for himself. He sipped the hot beverage as he waited for the man to speak.

He did not have to wait long.

"You fought a Mauvais Dentes… with a bread-knife."

Harry nodded. "Did Detective Burkhardt tell you about that?"

The man's voice was hard; "He does not know what I am."

The wizard was genuinely surprised. True, _he_ did not know what the man was either – but he knew that Sean Renard was _something_. He had assumed that Nick knew at least that much, if not more, himself. This man was his boss, after all.

"What makes you think I will not tell him?" Harry asked carefully. There was no threat in his voice, only honest curiosity – because Harry knew necessary secrets but he also knew loyalty and he was not sure where, exactly, this information fell in that murky divide.

"This is my city." Renard informed him – no pretence or pretentiousness, just a naked fact.

The wizard pondered that in silence for a long moment: "What does that mean?"

The man across from him looked up sharply and must have seen the lack of knowledge reflected on his face because when he answered his voice had warmed, to some extent: "You are truly a long way from home, if you do not know."

And Harry smiled, a pained crooked smile that must have looked completely out-of-place on the face of a young man – because it was the broken smile of someone who had lost all. "Yes. I am."

The man nodded thoughtfully and kindly picked up their earlier thread of conversation. "It means that this city is mine to protect, mine to police and mine to rule."

Harry took a drink of his Machiatto as he thought that over. Carefully putting his cup down again, he turned his attention back to this city's ruler. "And you can do this better without the Detective knowing who you are?"

The wizard could see that the ruler of Portland was considering his answer; weighing just how much or how little to tell. In the end, the man settled for a simple truth. "It is necessary. For now."

Necessary.

And Harry did not really know this world – not as well as this man across from him did. Nor did he know this city as intimately as the man who claimed to rule it. So Harry would keep that secret – because he knew secrets. And he would drag it out in the open if he felt it needed to be told – because Harry knew loyalty.

And Nick had earned his.

(Word Count: 600)


	13. Question

"Monroe," Harry started, remembering a question he had been meaning to ask his Blutbad friend, "do you know anything about those who claim to rule over a city?"

His friend blinked, surprised at the sudden question; "You mean in Wesen terms?"

The wizard nodded distractedly, as he took the vegetarian quiche out of his oven.

"Well, yeah, Wesen have rulers too. Royalty. Most of them live back in Europe, though – those who rule over a city or territory are usually Princes. They are generally the ones in charge of the entire Wesen population there – anyone who breaks their rules tends to meet a nasty end." Monroe told him, taking a seat at the table. "That looks good."

Harry regarded the table; salad, carafe of water, two glasses, homemade quiche. He nodded in satisfaction and sat down as well, dividing the quiche between them.

"Why do you ask, anyway?" the wolf asked, though his attention was more on the food before him than on Harry.

"The Prince of Portland came to see me" the wizard answered with a shrug.

His friend's head snapped up to look at him: "Woah, man, what? Are you sure?"

"That's who he claimed to be, I guess." Harry said with a small shrug. "I believe him – I couldn't tell what sort of Wesen he was, but I could tell that he was _something_. Powerful."

That seemed to be the start shot for his friend to start panicking: "Are you _alright_? What did he say? Are you in trouble? We can get Nick and maybe... well…" the Blutbad floundered, "well, we'll think of _something_ we can do."

It was obvious from his friend's doubtful expression that he didn't think there was much they could do. Monroe exhaled loudly. "Jeez, man, a Prince? I didn't even know Portland _has_ a Prince. Well he can't be happy that he's got not one but _two_ Grimms in his territory. Man. As if those Reapers aren't enough trouble. An honest-to-God _Prince_."

"Hm…" Harry hummed thoughtfully, adding some salad to his plate. He didn't bother to point out that he was not, in fact, a Grimm – Monroe didn't quite believe him and _now_ did not seem to be the best time to get into another discussion about Harry living in denial.

"Are you in trouble?"

The wizard met his friend's concerned eyes: "No. I don't think so. Don't worry about it, Monroe. I was just curious, that's all."

"Yeah, well. I'm calling Nick."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" The Blutbad asked, even though he didn't seem inclined to listen to any argument Harry would make, because he didn't pause in digging out his phone.

"Oh, just something the Prince said – Nick doesn't know about him and he would rather keep it that way for now, apparently." Harry cocked his head. "What do you think, though? _Should_ we tell the detective?"

"The Prince actually _ordered_ you not to tell Nick?" the wolf repeated, letting go of his phone as if it burned him; "Yeah, that may not be such a good idea then."

"Are you sure?" Harry frowned. "If you think Nick should know…"

"You would go against a _Prince_? Do you even know how powerful they really are? They rule over all of the city's Wesen. That's no job for a pushover, man. He's not someone you want to piss off."

"If Nick needs to know, than he needs to know." Harry said easily – as if it was the most obvious thing it the world. "I don't think the Prince means him any harm, but I'm not exactly an expert on these matters."

Monroe stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide, expression assessing – as if fully seeing him for the first time. Then the man blinked and the intensity of his gaze disappeared.

"Why don't we wait and see, for now…" the wolf finally said. The edge of panic was gone from his voice and the hint of fear had left his eyes. What was left was a tense, but steady calm.

And Harry trusted Monroe, and Monroe's friendship with Nick. And if this is what he truly thought, without fear or panic clouding his judgement, then Harry could agree with that.

Because a large part of him believed the same – had seen something in the police captain's eyes that made him think that the man truly did seek to police and protect his city – and all of the people in it. _Especially_ his detective.

Once upon a time, Harry would have told his friends regardless. Once upon a time, he would have sought out the Prince and demanded to know everything.

But Harry was not that person anymore. He was not that person here. Not the hero, not the mystery-solver.

Not the Grimm.

(Word Count: 800)


	14. Home

Harry used to count the days.

When he had first arrived in this world, dazed, angry and worried about his friends he hadn't know just how misplaced he really was. All he had known was that he needed to get back to the Ministry and make sure that everyone was alright.

But he'd found out that there  _was_  no Ministry. No magical community, no Hogwarts, Diagon Alley or Saint Mungo's. He was no where near where he should have been.

Those first few weeks he had hoped that perhaps Hermione would somehow find a way - to come here, to find him, to bring him back. So after searching desperately for the wizarding world and failing, after realising just  _how_  far he was from home, he had returned to the city he had landed in – hoping that that would make it easier for her to find him.

Worlds apart from his own and he had settled in the city he had landed in, as if that would actually make a difference. As if that would really help Hermione find him.

But he had  _wanted_  to believe that he would find his way back – he  _had_  believed it because they had made it through so much together that it seemed like they would always find a way, somehow.

So he had counted the days and had collected books on magic – more fiction than fact but he read them anyway, completely and with the hope that somehow,  _somewhere_  he would find the answer.

The thought that there was no answer to be found was forcibly pushed from his mind.

A month after landing in this world, after staying in cheap hotels and abandoned warehouses, he finally decided to use his remaining money – the golden wizarding coins got quite a good exchange rate in this world – and bought a rundown shop and the apartment above it.

It took him two weeks before he gave in and started turning his shop in an actual store that could get customers. Two weeks of continuously searching through books, through the internet, delving deeper and deeper into pure fiction because he hadn't wanted to admit it – even to himself – that it might be time to settle in for the long haul. A month and two weeks and he had come no closer – had seen no sign that there  _was_  even such a thing as magic in this world. And practicality won out – he needed to make a living somehow, so the downstairs store became a bakery.

But he hadn't given up, hadn't given in – his shop was put in perfect order but his apartment remained quiet and empty and cold. More like a hotel then a home, because he wasn't planning on staying.

Then, as autumn approached and the days slowly shortened, Harry bought a few candles, because he was more used to reading by candlelight than the bright lamp in his apartment, and because he appreciated their warm glow. A few days later, he decided that a plaid would make the colder evenings more pleasant. He couldn't quite bring himself to buy the bright Gryffindor red one, but settled on a reddish-brown one and then picked up a yellowish-orange one as well to balance it out.

Then he had met Monroe and learned that this world was not without some form of magic either – because Wesen were certainly  _something_ and there  _had_  to be a reason why Grimms could see them for what they really were when no-one else could. Harry's money was on magic because somehow,  _he_  could see them too and there was no way he could be descended from a family of this world.

So he kept searching, kept asking Monroe and Nick as subtly as he could about magic and the abilities of Wesen. But days went by and although he learned more about this new world, nothing that they told him indicated any form of wizarding magic or a way home.

And he stopped counting the days.

Harry wasn't sure how or when that had happened.

His useless books on magic were joined by a book on potion making from Rosalee's store. It was a thank-you gift, she had said and Harry had accepted it with a strange twisting feeling in his stomach. Because although he had never liked Potions back at Hogwarts (three guesses why) it was something achingly familiar and yet completely different from back home.

It had taken him a few days before he could bring himself to actually sit down and read the book – but when he finally did it was easy to lose himself in it, his emotions tempered by the matter-of-fact instructions and the background information of various ingredients and tools. Just as he had buried his frustration and desperation in his baking when he had first set up shop, now he could work through a small part of his home-sickness through the pages of this book.

Following the book were vegetarian recipes from Monroe – and after a while he finally gave in and bought a binder to collect them in.

Sometimes when Monroe came over to his apartment, he was joined by Nick or Rosalee and occasionally they brought something with them when they stayed for dinner. Beer at first, but Rosalee once brought a small basket fruit with a small, wooden crafted fox in the middle.

As they got to know him better, the beer was changed to tea, and the fox was joined by a wolf, now sitting watchfully on what used to be an empty shelf.

Slowly, without meaning to, the apartment gained a warmth; a sense of comfort and welcome and _home_ , instead of the stark, temporary-ness that it had held before. It wasn't until Monroe took away his unmoving, basic chrome clock and, instead of replacing the batteries, replaced the whole thing with a wooden decorative piece that Harry really saw what was happening. Monroe summoned a worried smile as he took in Harry's frozen form and pointed out that the old clock,  _man_  that was a soulless piece of junk – now this,  _this_  was a clock.

But the wizard was incapable of replying, of saying or doing anything – because that was the moment when it _finally_ hit him.

So Monroe babbled on and on about clocks and craftsmanship, desperately filling Harry's heavy, painful silence with whatever words came to mind. And he  _knew_  that Monroe didn't understand – his friend probably felt like he made some sort of social gaffe and tried to cover it with a blanket of clock-related facts.

And while Monroe’s soothing voice enveloped him, Harry managed to shake off his panicky shock. He smiled politely, agreed that it was a beautiful clock and he poured the wolf more tea and brought up some left-over muffins. And their conversation drifted on, beyond clocks and things unspoken. But Harry's smile was forced and his mind was distant and his hands shook ever so slightly as he carefully put down the teapot.

Because for the first time, when he thought about his world, his mind dwelled not on all that he would regain if he made it _back_ , but about all that he would lose if he _left_.

(Word Count: 1200)


	15. Waiting

Harry sat quietly in a chair in the corner, taking in the curtain, the white walls, the unmistakable scent of hospital.

He had hardly ever been to a muggle hospital – as a child, the Dursley’s hadn’t cared much about his health, and despite the rough treatment at his relatives’ hands, he had never gotten badly hurt. Maybe it was his magic that had protected him, or maybe he was just lucky.

It didn’t matter – his time at Hogwarts had more than made up for any lack of time spent in a hospital. He wondered if Madame Pomfrey still considered the bed he had often occupied there his?

A lot of people had gotten hurt in the war as well, but since the Ministry had ended up in Voldemort’s control, it had never been safe for him, Undesirable No. 1, to visit any of them.

Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to regret that – because there was something frustrating about sitting passively by someone’s side, watching, waiting and being unable to help.

Harry looked at the bed, where Julliette slept peacefully – displaying no signs of dark magics or being under a spell. If there was _any_ time when his magic should be helpful in this world, now would be the time. But Harry was no mediwizard, and the only medical spells he knew were useless in this situation. His ‘enervate’ had certainly done a whole lot of bloody nothing.

So he sat there, as helplessly as a muggle, because Nick was his friend, and because - although he had only met Julliette a couple of times – he knew she was a nice person who didn’t deserve to get caught up in any of this.

But then, when did anyone truly get what they deserved?

With a sigh, the wizard waited.

(Word Count: 300)


	16. Fact

After Nick left to respond to a call from the station, Monroe stretched out. “Man, these are weird times to live in. A Blutbad helping the police. _Nice_ Grimms. It’s strange. Unnatural.”

Harry rolled his eyes; “I’m not, you know.”

“What? Nice? You keep plying people with food and drinks when they come over, even when you’re annoyed with them. And I really appreciate what you did for me and Rosalee – letting us stay with you with that Mauvais Dentes after us, that was a nice thing to do.”

Harry cleared his throat, feeling rather awkward in the face of Monroe’s gratefulness. “A Grimm, Monroe. I’m not a Grimm.”

“Wait, what?” The wolf asked loudly, “But, you stopped denying that months ago!”

Harry was a bit taken aback by the vehement reaction. He had at first always denied being a Grimm, but after a while he’d just stopped, because it always ended with the Blutbad giving him some awkwardly earnest advice about accepting what you are.

“That’s because I was getting tired of this argument. It doesn’t really matter anyway,” the wizard answered, trying to wave the issue away.

But Monroe wasn’t going to let it go; “It matters! Who and what you are, that matters, dude. But I don’t get it – I mean, I know this isn’t something someone would ask for, but being a Grimm – that isn’t so bad, is it? I mean yeah, there’s the danger, and the Wesen and I get that some of that might seem a bit – well, bloody, sometimes, because it is. And I’m not doing this right…” Monroe trailed off with a frown.

“Monroe.” Harry said, firmly – stopping his friend from rambling on. “Let it go. Let’s just agree to disagree on this, alright?”

“It’s not a philosophical debate! There’s nothing to agree or disagree with – it’s a _fact_. I’m a Blutbad, you’re a Grimm, which, yeah, when you think about it… that’s a bit weird. But that doesn’t change the facts. You can’t disagree with facts, man. It doesn’t work that way.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “I’m not a Grimm, Monroe. But if this is such a big issue for you, I won’t argue with you if you say I am.” Why would he? He had been called worse things – freak, liar, arrogant, saviour, undesirable, murderer, champion. And Monroe was right about one thing – compared to all that, being a Grimm wasn’t so bad.

“That’s not the point.” Monroe muttered, but thankfully he just sighed, resigned in the face of Harry’s typical stubbornness, and let the argument go.

Harry sighed as well, because he knew Monroe – knew that although Monroe wasn’t as stubborn as he was, or Nick for that matter, the Blutbad had a habit of mother-henning them both.

The wizard almost snorted – strange times, indeed. If a Blutbad worried about what he thought were two Grimms.

He glanced to the side and saw deep thoughts spread out over the wolf’s face.

Harry knew that this wasn’t over.

(Word Count: 500)


	17. Fine

Harry sighed when he saw who walked into the bakery. Not because he didn't want to see Nick - he actually liked the guy. No, because he recognized that glint in the detective's eyes. Nick Burkhardt wasn't just here for coffee and a muffin.

"Monroe ratted me out, didn't he?" were the first words the resigned wizard said to the far too cheerful looking detective.

Nick blinked and looked slightly embarrassed for a moment, but the man shook it off easily. "He's worried about you," the Grimm said, and Harry could read in those earnest eyes that Monroe wasn't alone in that worry.

The wizard sighed, again, because as much as he liked Nick, the man was tiring sometimes. For a Grimm he had a rather protective streak - Harry supposed it was the cop in him.

"Well, he doesn't have to worry," Harry said, while his hands followed the familiar pattern of preparing coffee in a travelling cup, "I'm fine."

But his distraction cost him - the words were too flat, he realized, as he turned to the detective to give him the coffee. They had rolled off his tongue automatically and sounded as hollow as they were. Because Harry had always been 'fine' - if anyone even bothered asking.

Even when he wasn't. _Especially_ when he wasn't.

And of course Nick picked up on it, because even after everything the cop still saw him as someone barely out of childhood - and an unhappy one at that. And today, of all days, the man was obviously  _looking_  for something to worry about.

"Detective..." Harry started, and almost winced because _that_ was obviously another mistake - insisting on that distance between them now, after all this time of calling him ‘Nick’.

And sure enough the man frowned, before smiling that gentle, disarming smile of his. "I'll drop by tonight, if that's ok," Nick said, with a quick glance at the customers waiting behind him.

"You  _really_  don't have to." Harry tried, but he already knew it was a futile attempt.

"I know. But I'll be here."

And without giving him any more chance to protest, the Grimm, with that dratted smile of his, turned and walked out the door.

And Harry shook his head, wondering why he bothered with these people – with Nick’s impossible stubbornness and his way of bulldozing into someone’s life. With Monroe and that awkward honesty of his, and Rosalee with her fierce gentleness and enthusiasm about rare ingredients or Wesen. With these three people that _cared_. Because, perhaps, they cared _too much_ – they came too close to being a vital part of him like Ron and Hermione were – are – would always be.

But Monroe wasn’t Ron, and neither was Nick, and although Rosalee was similar in a way, she was not Hermione. These were not the friends that had stood by him, the friends he had shared _everything_ with.

But his friends here didn’t _know_ Harry Potter.

Just Harry.

And that was just perfectly fine.

(Word Count: 500)


	18. Research

They sat in quiet camaraderie in Rosalee’s spice shop – not frantically searching through the pages, because their initial burst of activity had long since worn off. Now they were tired but settled in for a long search, with a stack of books from Nick’s trailer still waiting for them on the table.

Occasionally one of them would sit up straighter and say something like ‘Oh, maybe… uh. Nah.’ and slump back down into their chair.

Nick’s face slid into look of incredulity whenever he came across some strange or horrible piece of information. Monroe sometimes frowned or made a sarcastic remark ‘oh, that’s nice. Of course they would cut off his head.’ And Rosalee sighed and smiled and frowned and turned the pages eagerly.

And Harry, Harry felt his heart beating in his throat in something akin to panic. He focused on the words on the page – on the drawings of the unfamiliar Wesen and the dry and sometimes bloody explanations that went with them.

He swallowed hard and tried not to remember the times he had spent with Hermione hovering over him and Ron in the library while they researched the newest danger or weirdness to haunt his steps.

(Word Count: 200)


	19. Mentoring

“Harry, this is Hank Griffin – my partner.”

“Hank, this is Harry.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, wondering what the Grimm was up to this time. “Nice to meet you.” He dutifully uttered to the other policeman. He kept his attention on the man long enough to shake hands and receive a greeting in return, before turning wary eyes back to Nick.

“Can we come in for a while, Harry? If you’re not busy?”

And just like that the wizard knew this was going to be _bad_ – because when did Nick Burkhardt ever ask permission before bulldozing his way inside? But Harry was nothing if not polite so he allowed the two detectives entry into his closed bakery and made them a drink. Coffee for them, tea for him, though he was half-certain he might prefer something a little stronger for this conversation.

When they were all settled at a table, Nick gave his opening folly: “Hank has just recently learned about Wesen – has even seen a few with his own eyes.”

And Harry almost groaned because he could already see where this was going. Either the detective wanted Harry to help Hank adapt or…

“Yeah, that was a bit freaky at first – I thought I was going mad. Luckily Nick explained it. We can’t all be going mad, so that just leaves the truth.” Nick’s partner said easily.

…or Nick was still trying to ‘help Harry adapt’ to being a Grimm.

Bloody hell. Did Burkhardt actually tell his partner to get the kiddy gloves on and try to _relate_ to Harry?

Detective Griffin ignored Harry’s silence and continued; “So you’ve been seeing them too, huh? Like Nick? That must have been really something.”

The wizard closed his eyes for a moment, mentally counting to ten. He had gone along with Nick’s little mentoring crusade so far – he didn’t really _mind_ joining the detective in his searches to identify whatever Wesen he had come across, but _this_ – this was going too far.

He opened his eyes and looked straight at the Grimm, ignoring the man’s partner for now. “Nick, I fought a Mauvais Dentes with a breadknife.” Harry said, drily – borrowing the Police Captain’s phrasing. “I’ve seen Monroe Woge dozens of times – and he is hardly the only one. You’ve been dragging me into your Grimm-related research more and more lately - don’t think I haven’t noticed this little mentoring thing you’ve been pulling on me lately.”

He made sure to make his voice sound as firm as possible. “I’m not traumatized. I’m not in denial. So whatever sort of mental counselling you have bullied your friend into… stop it. Now.”

“Harry – It’s not that I think you’re… troubled. I’m just trying to help you.” He waved his hand between himself and Hank “ _We’re_ just trying to help you.”

And Detective Griffin must have seen the rising ire on his face, because the man raised his hands and shook his head, “Hey, this was your idea – leave me out of it, will you.”

Nick stopped and looked at both Harry and his partner before sighing. “Ok, fine. But if there’s anything you _do_ want to talk about…”

“Oh, I know you’ll be just _thrilled_ to coddle me,” the wizard said, sarcasm coating every one of his words.

Hank laughed and Nick shook his head and backed down and Harry could see why this partnership actually worked.

It would take someone special to keep up with a Grimm.

This good-natured cop who took things in stride seemed like a good person to know.

Especially if he could keep Nick’s hovering to a minimum.

(Word Count: 600)

 


	20. Run

“Just keep running.” Monroe urged him as cries of ‘Grimm’, and ‘kill them’ sounded behind them.

“Detective Burkhardt better hurry up.” Harry grouched uncharitably.

“ _Detective Burkhardt_? Since when did you go back to calling him that?”

“Since he has the most _idiotic_ of hare-brained schemes. Seriously? How was any of this a good idea? ‘But Harry, they won’t know you’re a Grimm. They know about _me_ , but not about _you_. We can’t let Monroe go in alone.’” Harry’s attempt to mimic Nick sounded far more high-pitched and undignified than the real deal, but at the moment the wizard couldn’t care less that he was making the man sound like a teenage girl.

He carefully avoided any thoughts of the things he and Ron had gotten up to when they got an idea in their heads. Sometimes even Hermione hadn’t seen another way and had gotten in neck deep along with them – stealing a Gringrott’s dragon or turning into a human cat after a misguided attempt at polyjuice.

Even that spying attempt was better than this one.

“Did _Detective Burkhardt_ really think that none of these oh-so-reasonable Wesen would Woge during their little ‘let’s hunt down the Grimm’ war-council?”

“Hey, look on the bright side, at least we made a plan B!” Monroe tried to steer Harry to a more cheerful point of view.

They dodged around another cluster of trees and saw a trio of people standing about a hundred meters in front of them.

All three of them had animalistic features and were growling at them.

As one Harry and Monroe sharply adjusted the direction they were running to.

“I thought we were supposed to be running towards _our_ cavalry.” Harry dead-panned.

“Uhm. Yes. Well, I’m sure Nick and Rosalee will show up with that potion-thing soon.” 

“I thought it was some sort of knock-out gas?”

“You know, right now I really don’t care what they show up with as long as it works.” Monroe answered. “Oh crap.”

Harry glanced behind him and saw that yes, their murderous pursuers were actually catching up on them. He gave a slight prayer of gratefulness that these Wesen were predisposed towards axes, swords and other medieval, short-distance weaponry and got ready to put on another burst of speed.

“Well, at least we’ll get a good work-out.” Harry commented. It had been a while since he’d had to run for his life. It felt strangely familiar and fun to be running alongside a friend like this again. “Lead the way.” He told Monroe when the forest thickened and the man jumped forward without hesitation, easily picking out a path and creating one if their way was obstructed.

Seeing the group still catching up with them and feeling his body tiring rapidly, Harry glanced quickly at the wolf’s back, carefully took hold of his wand and pointed it at the group of Wesen without letting himself think about it too much.

“Deprimo” Harry muttered with a backwards glance and immediately a strong gust of wind started up. The wizard hid his wand and didn’t watch as a few large branches and a cloud of sand and leaves hurled directly towards their pursuers.

The wolf turned his head when he heard strange sounds and curses behind them and blinked. “Did you just _see_ that?”

“What?” Harry asked, making sure to add every last bit of exhaustion and strain to his voice to distract his friend. And maybe that exaggeration was completely unnecessary, because he really _was_ tired and he really _could_ use a moment to catch his breath and Monroe wasn’t exactly unobservant.

The wolf shook his head. “You ok, man?”

“Oh yeah. I’m bloody perfect. I’ll be even more wonderful when that detective of yours finally decides to grace us with his presence.”

“Detective of mine?” Monroe stuttered out. “Why is he _mine_ all of a sudden?”

“Because you knew him first.” Harry pointed out. “Besides, _I_ only claim him as a friend when he’s being the _nice_ Grimm, an easy-going guy, or when he has that adorably clueless look on his face. When he’s dragging me into his bloody messes or bulldozing his way into a person’s life he’s _all_ yours.”

Right, so maybe he wasn’t really all that annoyed with Nick, but once in a while he deserved a little bit of snarking. Especially when Harry was _so_ bloody done with all of the running.

He took back what he thought before. There was _nothing_ fun or nostalgic about this at all, because he really hadn’t missed those times where he _had_ to keep going, had to keep running even when it felt like his whole body was burning and fighting to stay upright.

He tried not to collapse with a heart-felt ‘thank god’ when Nick and Rosalee finally showed up with their finished product and one of those Grimm weapons.

There was really no need to make the detective even more protective by looking like a poor teen at the end of his rope, so somehow he remained standing and allowed himself only a deep sigh of relief.

When the group of Wesen finally caught up with them, the knock-out gas _did_ prove to be spectacularly successful. And Nick _did_ end up showing them his better side again – Harry was pleasantly surprised that somehow, _somehow_ , the police detective ended up resolving everything without anyone dying.

Of course, the man first had to agree to a fight to the death with the leader of this little warrior troupe that had come to hunt the Grimm. But Nick was not the type of man who could kill in cold blood and it seems that these Wesen didn’t think less of him for his mercy.

So in the end, the four of them went home with another threat put to rest. Rosalee the only one who wasn’t battered or bloody. 

All in all, Harry counted it as a win and shook his head in amusement that even worlds away this was still his life.

(Word Count: 1000)


	21. Peaceful

“I’m sorry.” Monroe said, still looking at the closed door through which Nick had just left.

Harry blinked; “For what?”

“We keep dragging you into danger. I know you don’t want this life. You keep denying you’re a Grimm, even after all this time you still deny it. Man, you own a bakery of all things. I don’t know what brought you to Portland, and you know I won’t ask about your past – not if you don’t want to talk about it, ‘cause, man, I can understand that.”

Monroe turned his head, meeting his eyes and Harry was startled by the reddish-ness in those pupils. The wolf was peeking out, angry, guilty, grieved. “We keep treating you like a Grimm even if you don’t want to be one. Even staying in Portland is probably dangerous for you. I haven’t forgotten what you said, you know, about meeting the Prince.”

Then Monroe averted his eyes, and Harry could see his friend’s hand clenching, something fierce and forceful in his stance. But when he opened his mouth again it was not to say something determined or angry like Harry had expected – no, his voice was barely a whisper. “Whatever sort of peaceful life you’re looking for… I don’t think you’ll find it here. You’ll never be free of the Wesen world here.”

It sounded like a confession – like something he hadn’t wanted to say out loud.

Harry took a breath, opened his mouth – but he wasn’t sure what to say, so he closed it again. Silence fell between them, not the comfortable silence they often shared, but something filled with a tense expectation, as if they were waiting for something.

And as Harry studied his friend’s silent form, he realized that Monroe _was_ waiting for something, for something to break – to end. That little speech was more than just guilt, it was almost like a benediction – or a goodbye. It was something _Harry_ might have said, once upon a time, to give his friends a way out; to leave the war, leave the fear and death and the danger that always followed him.

And on the heels of that realization, another thought hit him – that it had been a long time since he had felt like that. Life in Portland was different. He wasn’t Harry Potter here – was hardly even a wizard. He was just Harry – Harry with a bakery, with friends who came over for dinner and dragged him into all sorts of Wesen related issues.

It was… nice. Peaceful.

And suddenly he laughed. And his friend looked at him cautiously, because, perhaps, this was a strange time to burst out into laughter. So he took a breath, stifling his mirth at this hilarious irony.

“Monroe.” Harry started, something warm and fond in his smile that took the Blutbad by surprise. “I don’t mind. You know I don’t mind. This, all of this isn’t… as bad as you think.”

And it was difficult to find the right words. Because how can you explain this to someone who hasn’t lived the life he had lived? How could someone understand that after everything – after being the orphan, the freak, the saviour, the scapegoat, the warrior, the hunted, the revered that this – this was peace. This was freedom.

Finally, Harry sighed and decided on a simple truth. Because that was the way things often were for him here – between him, Rosalee, Nick, Monroe and even the police captain.

Simple truths were his way of life now and it was working for him so far. “You are my friend. If I can help, then I will. Because I want to – because I couldn’t _not_ help. Because I don’t want to see you, any of you, get hurt. It would hurt me far, far more if you didn’t let me help you. If you asked me to stand by idly and watch as my friends got hurt... That is not a peaceful life. And running away isn’t freedom, it’s just…” Harry trailed off and shook his head unable to find the words to explain what he meant. Instead he said, “I’m not going anywhere, Monroe.”

Monroe stared at him for a long moment – something in his gaze made Harry just as uncomfortable as his friend’s earlier guilt and sadness. Because there was something akin to awe – only more gentle, something grateful and relieved like Harry was worth something and it made the wizard squirm beneath that gaze. Because a look like that was not something he was very familiar with.

It was different than the hollow adoration from those who called him saviour. And it was completely opposite to the way his relatives used to look at him, their eyes screaming ‘freak’ and ‘unnatural’ and ‘burden’. It felt like one of Hermione’s too-tight hugs on the platform, in which she tried to convey all the affection he would need to last the summer.

It made him avert his eyes, because he didn’t know how to deal with it – never knew how to deal with something like that after being told all of his life that he was either nothing or a weapon.

And of course the wolf could tell – because Monroe always knew when Harry grew skittish or uncomfortable with their camaraderie – so the man didn’t say anything, just nodded.

And Harry offered to make tea and get some pastries.

“Sure, man, that sounds great.” Monroe answered with an edged smile that only barely held back the words the wolf wanted to say.

Harry quickly retreated, not just because he wanted to get away before Monroe would thank him, or even hug him. No, there was another reason why Harry needed a moment alone.

Because something _had_ broken after all – not the thing Monroe feared for with his offer for Harry to back out - not their friendship.  
But something just as precious.

 _"I'm not going anywhere"_ Harry heard his own words echo in his mind, and something broke with them.

Because he had meant them.

(Word Count: 1000)


	22. Desperation

“What do you know about obsession?”

Harry blinked and turned around, finding the tall, tense form of the police captain.

Something was wrong with the man, this much the wizard could tell straight away. He carried around him a cloak of barely restrained power. And underneath the surface there lay a strong emotion - hate, love, rage, fear, there was no way of telling - only _just_ held in check.

Harry carefully set the garbage bag down on the pavement and gestured to the door of his bakery, wordlessly inviting the authoritative man in.

Uncharacteristically, Captain Renard seemed to hesitate for a moment before visibly steeling himself and opening the door with a harsh tug.

Harry wisely didn’t comment. Instead he followed and closed the door behind them, turning the lock to ensure their privacy.

He had only met this man twice, but he knew enough to recognize that this was a person accustomed to being in control of, if not his circumstances, than at least _himself_.

That was definitely _not_ the case right now.

“Obsession?” Harry queried, forgoing the offer of a drink this time. “Is it natural or of a more… induced nature?”

The word ‘magic’ remained unspoken.

“It may not be… entirely natural,” the words were said with reluctance, as if it costs the man to even admit to this much.

And Harry couldn’t help but ask, “Why come to me?”

“You know who I am.”

Did he?

He knew the police captain’s name, Sean Renard, but not because the bloke had actually introduced himself.

He knew that the man was the supposed ruler of Portland, in Wesen terms, and that Nick had no idea that his captain was in any way involved with the ‘Grimm’ side of things. But what any of that _meant_..?

This time Harry hadn’t looked for all the answers, hadn’t tracked down the mystery and tried to solve it. This time he was as much in the dark as anyone.

And this man was still as much a mystery as he was a complete stranger. “I hardly know anything at all.”

“Then tell me,” came the forceful answer, “do you know how to stop this… affliction?”

Harry frowned and mentally rifled through his knowledge of potions and spells. He had been hiding his magic from Nick, from Rosalee and Monroe and everyone else he had met in this world. But… _could_ he? If he used his magic, could he cure this man?

Silently observing the police captain, with his usually calm face now tight with frown lines, with his teeth clenched and that powerfully built body brimming with an energy born of the need to act… the wizard _wanted_ to.

But this was not his world. And this was not a spell he was familiar with. Even if the effects were somewhat similar to spells and potions he had heard of, the magic here was vastly different. And Harry could quite probably do more harm than good.

“I don’t know,” he finally settled on, the only real answer he had to give and it was entirely unhelpful. “Without knowing the particulars of the spell or potion that caused this, there’s little I can do.”

The Prince surged forward, invading his personal space. “ _Try_.”

It was not so much a threat as it was desperation, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder what had caused this. Who had pushed this powerful creature so close to his edge?

And what would happen if Sean Renard toppled off - and lost the control he was forcibly trying to hold on to?

“Alright,” he answered quietly, “there is something I can try. I don’t know if it will have any effect, but it can’t do any harm. It’s a way to remove spells, but it won’t work on everything…”

“Yes. Do it.”

“Right. Well, I… err… need you to sit down. Not here, though,” Harry said, glancing at the windows and wondering what in the blazes he was doing, “Follow me.” He pretty much regretted ever opening his mouth when the Prince did.

But it was too late to take it back.

Silent as a shadow, the looming presence at his back followed him up to his rooms.

(Word Count: 700) 


	23. Try

It was incredibly awkward for Harry, standing in front of where Sean Renard was seated on his couch. The coloured pillows and plaids that usually made his room feel warmer now seemed somewhat childish and out of place.

When, in fact, it was the aristocratic man that didn’t belong.

After a moment of hesitation he went to the radio and turned it on. And yes, adding music only made the situation even _more_ bloody ridiculous.

But there was really nothing for it.

“Close your eyes,” he eventually ordered, trying to sound resolute, as if he knew what he was doing, when in fact he was making it up as he went along.

“Excuse me?”

The wizard belatedly realized that drawing on his limited knowledge of playground muggle magic tricks was perhaps not the perfect way to hide what made him different (freakish) in this world. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound so…

“Look, do you want me to help you or not? I need you to close your eyes and try to slow down your breathing.”

And yes, now he was bringing mediation into the mix as well.

The Prince glared at him for a moment, sighed, and did as he said.

Harry moved to stand to the side, just in case the man decided to peek. Then, for the first time in this world, he drew out his wand openly in someone else’s presence.

“Finite Incantatem”

His voice was pitched low, drowned out by the inappropriate love song in the background, but the touch of his magic was unmistakable. The wizard had only just hastily hidden his wand away again when the police captain’s eyes snapped open.

“What was that?” the man demanded, “I _felt_ something.”

Harry let silence be his only answer. And apparently that was enough.

The Prince rose and gave him a piercing look, but didn’t force the issue. “Did it work?” he asked instead.

“I have no way of knowing,” Harry replied, “You told me to _try_ and I did.”

After a long pause, Sean Renard nodded sharply and let himself out.

(Word Count: 350)


	24. Liar

Harry felt rotten.

And it was strange, because he was keeping secrets from Nick too. From Monroe, and Rosalee and Hank. But somehow that was never this bad. Never unbearable. Yes, it made him feel guilty, sometimes, but it never made him feel this much like a complete and utter liar.

Maybe it was because they didn’t know he was keeping secrets from them?

But Julliette was staring at him, expectantly, looking for answers, looking for the truth and Harry stared at her, helplessly, not having anything to give her.

Not without repercussions. 

And if this was his decision – if this was his life, he would have told her. Because when it came down to it – when it came down to secrets and trust and hope, somehow Harry had always gone down that road. He had put his faith in his friends and taken the plunge and found that his family of friends still stood by him when he rose, bruised and battered, from the ground.

But this was not his life at stake – this was Nick’s life, Nick’s hope and Nick’s trust and Nick’s secrets so really the only simple truth he could give her was this.

“I’m sorry.”

(Word Count: 200)


	25. Rain

The rain beat a steady rhythm on his back, the wet, cold water freezing him to the bone. He hadn’t cast any water-repellent spells on his clothes, because that would have looked strange to anyone who noticed.

From what he had seen, Grimms and Wesen were very good at noticing things that were out of place.

For now, he wouldn’t risk it.

Instead the wizard suffered the wetness and the biting wind and shivered where he was standing next to Monroe - the both of them keeping a lookout in case the Schakal tried to make a run for it through the back alley.

“So what do we do if the Schakal actually _does_ come this way?” Harry asked his companion.

The Blutbad turned to look at him, “Eh, well, you and I should be able to take him, right? I mean, you are a Grimm…” His friend paused, looking at his reaction.

Harry raised an amused eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise respond to the by-now familiar argument between them. It was almost a bit of a joke for him by now, or it would have been had his friend been privy to his secrets.

As it was, though, the wolf worried about his supposed self-denial like a dog with a bone and that sort of stole some of the fun.

Monroe frowned at him and continued his sentence more forcefully than was common for him. “You are a Grimm and I am a Blutbad, we should be fine. I think. Even if this guy has managed to evade the police for weeks and seems to be uncommonly fond of ripping out people’s throats. And quite possibly eating babies. And wow, that argument got away from me somewhere.”

The wizard shook his head fondly at his friend. “I’m sure we can manage,” Harry finally said, “I was more concerned about how, exactly, we would explain our presence to the police. It’s not just Nick out there, after all.”

“Oh. That.”

The two exchanged glances.

“Well. We’re concerned citizens? When we noticed him running away from the police, we intervened. Simple. Easy. No poblemo.”

“And what, exactly, are you two fine, concerned citizens doing outside in this dark alley on such a bloody miserable evening?” The Brit cheerfully shot back, as the unrelenting rain made his point for him.

Monroe really looked at him for a moment, and Harry wondered how awfully pitiful he must look when the wolf couldn’t think of a reply for a long silent minute.

“Well, there’s that.”

Harry shivered again as a strong wind made his wet clothing feel as though small icicles were melting against his skin and he took a moment to consider his chances of unobtrusively casting a warming spell under the sharp eyes of a Blutbad.

“Some people _like_ the rain, you know,” Monroe finally said.

Sounds of ‘stop, police!’ reached them from a distance.

“Sure,” Harry agreed, his hand brushing across his wand’s hiding place, just in case. “Let’s go with that.”

(Word Count: 500)


	26. Silence

The captain was calm again, in control, and Harry was very pleased to see it. Even though he didn’t really know the man – not beyond a name and a job or beyond _other_ , _powerful_ or _prince_. 

But to see a proud man brought to his knees was not something the wizard particularly enjoyed, especially when said man had made no move against him (as far as he knew) despite the fact that Harry might just be encroaching on his territory somehow.

He still wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, the Wesen world and its unwritten rules - though he had come across quite a few of the written ones by now, having spent time in Rosalee’s spice shop and Nick’s trailer. But he didn’t think going around and cutting heads off was the right answer here. Or at any time, actually.

“Captain Renard,” Harry greeted with a welcoming smile on his face, “you look better.”

The tall man blinked at the unmerited warm greeting but inclined his head in acknowledgment and seated himself in the same chair as before – one where he couldn’t be seen from the windows. The wizard wondered what this visit was about, because if there was one thing he was sure of with this particular guest, it was that he was a proud and powerful man. And such men had a tendency to guard their own weaknesses fiercely. So he rather suspected that whatever the police captain would want to talk about, it was anything but their previous meeting. 

Which worked for Harry, because he didn’t want to discuss it either - he had too many secrets for that. But he had the feeling that the Prince had as many secrets as he had, if not more. And considering that Harry was a wizard-saviour from a different world with a title as dubious as ‘The Master of Death’... that was saying something.

Still, the man wore his veil of secrecy well.

Better than Harry, he could admit in the privacy of his mind. He could keep a secret if he had to, and keep it well, but there were secrets, confidences kept, and there were secrets – those that were related to fake smiles at real friends and lies that kept adding up to one big one. 

Harry never felt right about lying to people he cared for. Usually that left him with silence instead.

A silence that sometimes gnawed at him, and made him think what if…?

He was a Gryffindor, but his courage – unbending as it was - was not enough to erase years of being called a ‘freak’ by the only family he had.

Silence could be a heavy weight, but sometimes it was easier to bear than the alternative.

The police captain seemed to know silence as intimately as Harry did, and for a moment he wondered not _what_ this man was, but _who_ he was as a person and why his secrets were kept.

But the thought passed, and their silence remained.

(Word Count: 500)


	27. Outside

With the Prince of Portland seated silently across from him, his inborn curiosity lifted its head again - but nowadays it was at least _somewhat_ tempered by the wariness he had gained during the rest of his life.

“Would you care for a drink, captain?” Harry finally asked.

“Just a coffee,” the man replied evenly.

Their polite words and careful movements were almost like a dance and for a fleeting moment Harry regretted never having learned any diplomacy or etiquette, despite being heir to both the Potter and Black families.

The Dursley’s had only ‘taught’ him to act like a servant. Perhaps Sirius could have taught him, but after many years in Azkaban and being on the run, well, there had been other things to worry about and Harry imagined that etiquette and diplomacy, despite the fact that Sirius Black must have learned these things at some point, had been very low on his godfathers priority list.

So, there had really only been Lockheart as a teacher in this field – who had used Harry’s unavoidable detentions to try and ‘teach’ him how to ‘handle his fame’. And something told Harry that he was better of banning _those_ supposed lessons from his mind altogether.

So instead he served the police captain his coffee, put down a cup of tea for himself and carefully sat down across from the Prince of Portland. 

Then he waited for the other man to make the first move in what he was starting to suspect was a complicated chess match – one that he hadn’t known that he was even playing.

Or, the thought struck him, perhaps he was not even one of those playing at all – maybe Harry was just one of the pieces being moved around the board.

‘In that case,’ the wizard thought almost harshly, with memories of both red and twinkling eyes surfacing in his mind, ‘I’ll make sure that the players find that I’m no longer a pawn in another man’s war.’

He looked up at the man with fiercer eyes than might be considered polite – ready for anything.

Captain Renard sipped his coffee, undeterred by Harry’s strange shift in body language, though the observant man must have quietly made note of it. Then he deliberately put the cup down and looked him straight in the eyes, a powerful gaze from which Harry couldn’t look away.

“I’m grateful for your help.” The proud man admitted, with an easy voice, “But whatever it was you did _shouldn’t_ have worked.”

Harry’s body tensed and relaxed, much as it would have if he was prepared for a fight in a dark alley but ended up facing only an innocent looking cat. This was _not_ what he’d expected.

And he admitted to himself that he’d been wrong about his earlier assessment - when he thought this man would never want to discuss anything related to his earlier… affliction. 

The Prince may be powerful, and even proud. But not blindly so – not foolishly. This was a man who could and _would_ admit some amount of weakness, if only by acknowledging one that had already past.

“You’re welcome,” Harry replied – and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The man raised an eyebrow and let the silence stretch on, waiting him out. And the wizard told himself that he wasn’t falling for it and oh-so-subtly turned his eyes away from those piercing ones until they rested casually on the ceiling.

The Prince cleared his throat and when Harry looked back he could have sworn he saw a small, amused smile on the man’s face.

Harry opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again and then told the man just about the same simple truth as he had before, when he came to him for help. “I didn’t know if it would work. I just tried, like you asked me. Considering that you wouldn’t tell me the cause of… the situation… it was about all that I could do.” 

The wizard paused for a moment and couldn’t help but smile ruefully, “Did I break another unwritten rule?” 

Harry had a habit of doing that, and it seemed it was one that stuck with him even as the owner of a bakery in an entirely different world.

The police captain nodded; “You seem to be outside of the rules. Outside of the known.”  
For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more. But instead he quietly finished the coffee, nodded at him and left.

Harry Potter remained seated at the table, drinking his tea. If he were to hazard a guess, he would bet that one day this thing with the Prince would bring him a great big heap of trouble.

Not that it changed anything – knowingly walking into trouble… well, that was just another one of those habits.

(Word Count: 800)


	28. Fear

“Grimm..!” A terrified voice squeaked moments after his eyes met those of one of a pair of furry-faced boys. Both of whom then proceeded to, not very effectively, hide behind a nearby tree – where they started furiously whispering to each other.

“A Grimm, what do we do? What do we do!? Should we run away? But then he’ll notice us! I don’t want to die.” 

The other boy shook his head in denial, “He’s not a Grimm, he _can’t_ be. The only Grimm around here is Nick!”

“I know what I saw!”

Harry blinked at the strange reaction before nodding in understanding, “Nick, huh.” 

Somehow Nick was just as bad as Harry – strange things happened around him and trouble stalked the detective as fervently as it had the-Boy-Who-Lived.

One of the two boys peaked around the tree; “Did I say Nick? I meant _Dick_. Who is someone else entirely, not a Grimm at all. We don’t know anything about the Grimm. _A_ Grimm, any Grimm, anywhere.”

And then the kid was once again hiding.

The wizard raised an eyebrow in the general direction of the tree; “So you don’t know Nick Burkhardt?”

Another frightened squeak came from behind the tree, followed by a frantic: “How did he know his last name? Did he read my mind? _He read my mind_!”

And then Harry saw a glimpse of flailing limbs as the blond fell. The wizard quickly stood and moved forward so that he could see around the tree. The blond boy was lying on his back on the ground. Thankfully he seemed to be breathing.

“…did he faint?” Harry asked blankly, turning to look at the other boy. The adolescent cast him one terrified look and ran away like the hounds of hell were at his heels.

Leaving Harry with an unconscious minor. Fantastic.

He kneeled next to the boy, carefully checking him over before digging out the mobile phone that his friends in this world managed to convince him to get. 

“Detective Burkhardt.”

“Nick. Could you come and give me a hand?” Harry started reluctantly, “…It’s a Grimm thing.” 

(Word Count: 350)


	29. Friend

"When you said it was a Grimm thing, I thought you might be in danger," came the voice of his cavalry.

Harry looked up from where he'd been ineffectively trying to get the boy to calm down, to understand that he was not going to eat him or chop off his head or anything and for-Merlin's-sake at least keep _breathing_ instead of hyperventilating.

"Help?" the wizard asked, still seated on the ground next to the panicked youth.

The Grimm shook his head with a warm smile and turned to the teenager next to him. "Hey Mikey, you ok there?"

""Nick?!" the scared teen called out and scrambled towards him - away from Harry, "Nick, he's a Grimm! He's a _Grimm_!"

The police detective knelt down beside them. "Yes, I know," Nick said in a voice that was both firm and soothing and everything Harry had been going for and failing _terribly_ at.

And as easily as that, the detective managed to do what the Boy-Who-Lived couldn't in twenty minutes. 

Some saviour _he_ was, Harry thought ruefully.

Nick on the other hand, was doing just fine. So the wizard sat back and watched how the only _actual_ Grimm there talked to 'Mikey' and managed to change him from a terrified gasping heap into a teenage boy who was actually bold enough to look Harry in the eyes without a glimmer of fear but a whole heap of curiosity. All that, with just a few words and that earnest, protective look on the detective's face.

Ladies and gentleman, the Grimm. Run away in fear.

The wizard shook his head and stayed exactly where he was, under a tree on the leaf-covered grass in a park, feeling both completely useless at human interaction and oddly proud that this ridiculous man was his _friend_.

(Word Count: 300)


	30. Snake

Most days, Harry left the bakery door unlocked when he was still inside despite the ‘closed’ sign on the door. Because the only people who would still walk in were either those truly desperate for coffee (usually either crazy people or apologetic cops) or one of his, by now regular, visitors.

He was pretty sure one of the latter would be checking up on him tonight, so when the door opened, he didn’t stand up from where he was slumped in a seat cradling a mug of hot chocolate. Instead he lifted his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his visitor. And Harry sighed in relief that at least he didn’t have to deal with the somewhat mysterious Prince or a concerned police detective tonight.

“You ok there buddy?” Monroe asked with an easy-going voice as he sat down across from him.

Harry sighed, still vividly remembering second year when his Parseltongue abilities had become known and his classmates feared that he would – well, kill them, probably. The memory did not make his current situation any better even as he vaguely wondered how Monroe would react if he bought a snake and started talking to it.

“Those boys actually fainted – from _fear_ ,” the wizard finally said, “because of me.” And that was really kind of the issue here. Despite everything it still bothered him, just a little, that even _here_ – so far away from the wizarding world – there was still something hanging over him, a prejudice, a label that shaped the way people thought about him. Even his friends.

“Actually, I thought only the one fainted. Didn’t the other one run away? In terror. And actually, forget what I just said because that is probably not helping.”

Harry resisted the urge to start banging his head on the table like a teenager. Instead he sullenly asked “Am I really that frightening?”

Monroe snorted, “Right now? You look about as threatening as a disgruntled kitten.”

“I do still remember our first meeting, you know.” Harry shot back, with a slight hint of amusement. 

“Hey, that was just a precaution. I didn’t want to get into a fight with a Grimm, because, you know, well, bad things happen when a Bludbad lets loose.”

The wizard raised his eyebrows sceptically. “So you didn’t want to fight because I might have gotten hurt?”

“Exactly, yeah. I was just trying to avoid that.”

“Right, of course you were. Because I’m as frightening as a disgruntled kitten,” Harry shook his head with a small frown, “A kitten that scares the hell out of children.”

“Don’t worry about it Harry,” Monroe said, “A lot of people were scared of Nick too, at first. But by now he’s becoming known as a _nice_ Grimm. They’ll figure out soon enough that you’re one of those as well. In fact, Nick’s probably already spreading the news.”

Harry sighed again, this time for a different reason. 

And the urge to get that snake and _show_ his friend only increased.

(Word Count: 500)


	31. Morning

Harry groaned and dragged himself into a seating position. With momentous effort he placed his feet on the ground, wincing as it caused a twinge from one of his bruises, but with pure force of will he managed to get himself upright.

The hardest part was over.

Bleary-eyed, he stumbled to the shower and let the warm water soothe his tired, aching body.

After his shower he at least felt more human, but not in any way less disgruntled. He hadn't been able to get _nearly_ enough sleep.

Next time _Monroe_ could be the one staking out the murderer's house in Nick's car, no matter how 'unlikely' it was that the Lausenschlange would return there compared to their other leads.

Or, you know, the police, who actually got _paid_ for this bloody stuff.

With an annoyed huff he admitted defeat and opened the curtains, scowling at the pre-dawn barely-there light.

When Nick inevitably stopped by again for coffee, he would give the generally bright-eyed, insufferably cheerful Grimm a well-deserved glare because it wasn't right to keep a baker from having a good night's rest.

It really wasn't fair that the detective could combine his day job with their extra-curriculum activities, and in some cases even get to take sick days when he got injured from his own half-baked plans.

Harry, on the other hand, still had to get up far too early to get everything ready before opening up.

He really hoped that the captain wouldn't take today to show up again, because what he really needed was a nice, calm day for a change and not another verbal chess-match.

The wizard snorted, who he was kidding, he'd decided to own a _bakery_.

With practised hands he went through the usual morning preparations. Compared to some of his more demanding customers, the captain and even the dratted Lausenschlange, were far more reasonable and easy to handle.

It was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

Around mid-morning, it was Hank, not Nick, who showed up to get them their customary coffee.

Harry glared at the poor man anyway.

The unruffled detective seemed to take it in stride, "Bad day?" Hank asked easily, as if he got glared at by bakers every other day.

Harry's motions were easy and careful as he prepared the drinks, but his voice was a little petulant; "I'm not a cop. Next time _you_ can do the stakeout, while I'll _sleep_ like a regular person who needs to get up early the next morning."

The detective chuckled, "Welcome to a life of crime-fighting, my friend. There is no rest for the wicked. That means _we_ don't get to rest either."

The wizard frowned as he handed over the coffee, "At least _you_ get paid for this nonsense."

Hank shook his head, "For the Grimm stuff… man, not nearly enough."

At that, the wizard couldn't help but smile – Hank dealt with a lot of weirdness and always handled it well. The man had once confided to him, when it was just the two of them, how freaked out he'd been when he hadn't know it was all real.

But then, on one of the cops' more personal cases, Nick had told him that he _wasn't_ going crazy – after Carly, his goddaughter who needed him – turned out to be one of the Wesen.

Well, Hank had to either accept it or let them both down. And he wasn't one to turn his back on his partner. The man had stuck with the Grimm, getting dragged further and further into this strange life perhaps even more willingly than Harry himself.

On a whim, Harry added one of his freshly-baked chocolate muffins. "Here you go then, just for you – for putting up with that ridiculous partner of yours."

"Thanks, Harry," Hank grinned, "I'll make sure to eat it right in front of him, and rub it in his face that you like me better."

The wizard laughed, "You go do that, Hank. Have a good day!"

The detective left with a small wave of his muffin-holding hand.

Well, alright, perhaps it _was_ worth it – lack of sleep and all. But he couldn't admit that to Nick or he'd never get any peace.

(Word Count: 700)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Life and Times of Steve Rogers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9081166) by [Wild_Card_Writing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wild_Card_Writing/pseuds/Wild_Card_Writing)




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